Behind Doors
by Adi Who is Also Mou
Summary: It started with the lacy underwear. For simulatedfloridiansnow. Sherlolly Valentine's fic-a-thon.


It started with the lacy underwear.

John Watson would say, for all posterity, that he did not do all the laundry in 221B Baker Street. He only did his, when he used to live there. Okay, maybe there were one or two (or three or four or five) occasions when he needed a full load he took the clothes Sherlock left lying around on the bathroom floor and added them to the washing basket. (God knows, Sherlock seemed to assume that if he left the clothes lying around on the floor long enough they would turn up on his bed, freshly laundered. His mother had a lot to answer for.)

But really, ever since he moved out when Sherlock faked his death, and he met Mary, he had not done the laundry in 221B. So, really, when Mrs. Hudson asked him to take up the laundry when the dryer completed the cycle, he didn't complain much. But only because the poor woman did not need the additional strain on her back, and he was going to be here for a while anyway, if Mary's shopping for her baby shower took as long as he predicted it would.

He stuffed the shirts and trousers, not bothering to fold them properly (because _he _wasn't the bloody housekeeper) and trying really really hard not to touch the silk boxers that tumbled out (the man wore _silk _underwear and put it in the washing machine_. Jesus_) when a pink-and-lace confection fell out.

It was pretty, with lovely flower motifs and it looked like it barely covered anything, sort of like the red rose thing Mary wore on their wedding- _hang on._

Why on earth was _this_ in the wash with Sherlock clothes?

John closed his eyes to ward off any traumatizing images, as if closing his eyes would stop his brain from forming them, threw the pink _thing _back into the dryer, took the basket of Sherlock's clothes and ran upstairs.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, DI Lestrade was not completely incompetent. He worked his way up to Detective Inspector, didn't he? _And _he was a shoe in for the upcoming promotion. So there, he was _clever, _he could solve cases.

Then why did he, for the love of god, not question it when on his arrival at the Bart's morgue, he saw a neck tie hanging off the door handle? And why did he not think twice about doing an about turn and walking back to his car, instead of walking into the morgue like a normal person?

(Greg blamed it on his subconscious, of the years he spent at uni, walking around outside his dorm because his roommate had hung up a necktie at the doorknob.)

Morgues weren't supposed to have neckties at the door! That was not what morgues were for.

He climbed into his car, and slammed his head against the steering wheel. For some reason, (again, the subconscious was a powerful thing) he really did not want to go back to that morgue for a while.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson had been hearing loud bumps coming from upstairs for a while now. She did not want to know, because the last time she went up there, Sherlock _and _Molly Hooper (she was always around these days, so lovely of her to keep the poor boy company, he did get so lonely sometimes without John) had been moving a headless and armless torso around and she really did not think she wanted to see something like that again.

* * *

Molly looked lovely in the moonlight.

Her hair shone, the way it fell over her shoulders and her lips, her eyes, her breasts…

"You know," she said breathlessly, moving her hips in a way that took made his eyes roll back in his head. "We are going to have to tell them sometime."

He sat up; loving the way her breath hitched when he shifted inside her and the new angle caused all sorts of sensations. "That may be true," he said, thrusting his hips and swallowing her answering moan. "But for now," he rolled them onto their backs, kissing the gold ring hanging low on its chain, and resting on the valley of her breasts. "I think I'll keep you to myself for the time being, Mrs. Holmes."

Molly laughed. "_Doctor _Holmes to you, Mr. Holmes."

"Doctor Holmes," Sherlock admitted, before kissing her until she forgot everything in her mind except him.

* * *

_A/N: My dear Dia. Or maybe I should call you simulatedfloridiansnow? I called you that in my head before I found out your name. Sorry. Also, I would like to say sorry for this fic. A bit outside my area, but I hope you like it._

_Leave a review?_

_Love and Happy Valentine's day,_

_Adi x_


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